Assassins Creed: Allegiance
by Crossheart25
Summary: London,England 1888. As a savage and elusive killer stalks the streets of London, a disgraced assassin is charged with catching him and as times start getting desperate, the line between friend and enemy becomes more blurred than ever.
1. Chapter 1

**Assassin's Creed Allegiance**

**Chapter 1**

A pleasant, lukewarm breeze blew across the English countryside enveloping the solitary hooded figure trudging through the wheat fields. The pollen-filled wind made his eyes water. His hay-fever was one of the many inconvenient reasons that he had moved to the city in the first place and going back didn't just irritate his eyesight.

He pulled his collar up. It was getting colder and dark clouds were starting to form in the sky, not the best sign considering the nature of his visit.

Not far now. The house was less than a mile away, barely visible through his raw, tear-ridden eyes. His boots making a rough scraping sound whenever they made contact with the wheat in the field.

He was at the front door now. The house was tiny and of old fashioned construct. With mortar that looked about as old as time itself, cracked and murky glass windows and doors and window panes made of wood that even the termites didn't seem to fancy. Surprisingly, in contrast to the building's seemingly fragile state, it looked quite strong. The mortar, though old, was strongly and skilfully bonded together and the tiles on the roof were fashioned and fitted with the same care and precision as an artist spends on his masterpiece.

The man that the hooded figure had come to see had actually built this very house. He was old fashioned, had a strong belief that if a man wished to do something right then it could only be done by his own hand. He was a skilled craftsman although that was not his profession, not at all.

The hooded figure sighed heavily. He sincerely hoped that this was not a wasted journey.

He turned the brass handle on the front door and walked inside, not the wisest decision he had made in his life. He realised this as the throwing knife came at him at blinding speed and pinned his sleeve to the wooden door before he had time to blink.

He rapidly pulled his hood down with his free hand, "Stop master it's me!" he cried out as his assailant raised a second knife.

His cry was directed to a man in a coffee coloured armchair in the middle of a small living room with only a blackened stove, an oak table and a gigantic bookshelf which took up one whole wall for company. He was holding a small book in one hand while, almost casually, holding above his head a silver coloured throwing knife that was a twin to the one pinning his guests sleeve to his front door.

He lowered the blade and placed it on the oak table in front of him and resumed reading his book as if nothing had happened while his guest freed himself by pulling the blade out of the door and stood there awkwardly, unsure of what to do next.

Finally, the man in the chair spoke, "Will you close that bloody door and sit down Dick? Stop standing there like a lost mongrel pup!" His accent was thick but had an air of sophistication and intelligence, not the kind of voice you would expect to hear from a country bred Englishman.

The man, Dick, started grinding his teeth, "I've told you before that my name is Richard."

"It's shorter, besides," The man in the chair looked up and smiled widely, "It suits you rather well _Dick."_

Richard, with his face red and jaw clamped shut grabbed one of the wooden chairs in the corner and sat down opposite his 'master'.

He wore a simple plain shirt and trousers, both black. His face was like dark stone, tanned and close to emotionless. That smile that he had cracked was one of the few Richard had ever seen despite his many years as his apprentice. He placed the book back on the table.

"So," he intertwined his fingers and leant forward, "Why does the student return to his master after so long a gap? How long has it been, four, five years?"

"That sounds about right." Richard shrugged in response.

The man stared at him intently.

"Look," Richard splayed his hands, "The order sent me ok? They need your help with something."

"Not interested, there's a reason I live out here you know, I want to enjoy my retirement in peace."

"Assassins do not retire!" Richard urged," we either get lax or end up dead, you are neither one." He says while pointing at the man. "Besides you're not even forty yet!"

"After that business six years ago it's a wonder I haven't been hanged yet." He mumbled in response.

"Trust me we're all surprised that you never ended up swinging from a rope years ago." Richard laughed.

"Likewise, now what is it that those old fools want?"

Richard placed the throwing knife on the table, "Ok, it's like this we have a… how do I say this? A situation down in London that is…. causing an awful stir to say the least." Even as he said this Richard started to nervously fidget and bite his nails. An old habit, the man in the chair noted, reserved for only the worst of circumstances. He was starting to like this 'visit' less and less by the minute.

"Will you just spit it out already, I'm not getting any younger?" the man snapped.

"I…I'm sorry master… I haven't been sleeping much recently." He reached into the rawhide bag which he carried on his back, pulled out a newspaper and slid it along the table towards his master, who leant forward intently. It was a copy of the 'London Times, dated the 1st of October 1888, it read;

Savage Killer Claims Third Victim in One Month

_ The late Elizabeth stride is the latest in a clearly linked series of monstrous killings to occur in the Whitechapel district in the East end of London. She, along with fellow victims Mary Ann Nichols and Annie Chapman, was found strangled and severely mutilated. Her body was discovered in an alleyway, like the others, and had, according to the coroner James Roberts just died less than 6 hours before her discovery. However, unlike the others, the perpetrator was caught in the act by a passer-by who could only make out a figure in a long black cloak and a wide brimmed hat which obscured the face. He didn't see much though because once he saw the poor woman's body slumped against the wall and the glint of the murderer's blade he ran as though the devil were at the back of him, which, as far as all decent folk are concerned, he was._

The man looked up from the picture of the disfigured corpse beneath the article, his face like granite but his eyes sparkled with electricity and life.

"What is this Richard? What is happening that makes my apprentice tremble so and also make you're superiors desperate enough to call back they're so named 'loose cannon' back into their ranks?"

"Well," Richard began while drumming his fingers on his knees, "I guess I had better start from the beginning. Have you…" He stopped suddenly, his voice caught in his throat.

Only when he saw the mixture of concern and impatience in his master's face could he bring himself to speak again.

He swallowed hard.

"_**Have you ever heard of Jack the Ripper?"**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Assassin's Creed: Allegiance**

**Chapter 2**

The rustic fields and farmland whizzed past at a hundred miles per hour as the train roared across the rails with a clunk-clicking sound which send somehow calming tremors beneath the passenger's feet.

Richard sat opposite his former master in the train-car, both men beside a regularly cleaned window, with his legs crossed, arms folded and hood pilled over his face. His heavy breathing indicated that he was sleeping.

"Brat still snores like a thunderstorm." The man muttered under his breath, being careful not to wake his former apprentice. Although, as he well knew, when Richard was fast asleep an earthquake wouldn't wake him up.

He wore the same clothes that Richard has discovered him in except wearing similar hooded robes to his apprentice over them. At his feet lay a large leather suitcase which contained clothes, several books and a long, black walking stick with a silver head slotted into a strap on the side. There was also a hidden compartment in the case which contained throwing knives, compact firearms, bullets, poison and several attachments for the hidden blade which was attached to his right forearm.

He stroked his forearm thoughtfully, feeling the solid metal manacle underneath it. It had felt like a lifetime since he had worn the infamous weapon and had almost forgotten what it felt like yet the memory of when he had last used it to take a life was still crystal clear in his mind…

No. He couldn't think about that, not now. He shook his head frantically. He looked out of the window once again at the scenery which he had considered normality for half a decade being left behind by the steel carriage which was taking him rapidly towards London, towards Jack the Ripper.

His brow wrinkled at the thought of the murderer. Serial killers were nothing new and three victims was hardly a massacre but it was the nature of the killings that had bothered him. Every victim was mutilated almost beyond recognition. Mary Ann Nichols' throat was slashed, twice, from left to right and her abdomen partly slashed open. Annie Chapman suffered a similar fate except her abdomen was completely ripped open with her uterus removed, its current location is unknown and to be completely honest he wasn't sure that he really wanted to know what became of it. He found this disturbing that this man had not only taken poor Annie's life, he had stolen her womanhood.

Elizabeth Stride's body had gotten off quite lightly in his opinion. All that had appeared on her body was one clean cut along an artery along the left side of her neck. The fact that there was no abdominal mutilation (although that was surely on the way) was most likely attributed to the fact that the killer was interrupted during his grisly task.

"There was a fourth killing you know."

The man broke out of his trance with a start to find Richard, perfectly awake, hunched over and staring at his former master intently.

"What?"

"A fourth death, Catherine Eddowes, I guessed by the look on your face you were thinking about the killings, you always wear that look when you have a bad feeling about something."

The man shrugged in admittance, "So what is the nature of this new victim and why has she not had the honour of his dismembered remains being stamped on paper for the whole country to see?" He spat the last sentence out poisonously, clearly disapproving.

"Eddowes was murdered on the same night as Stride less than an hour apart." Richard began, "One of our brothers in the police force has informed us that a deal was made with the journalist who reports the killing to lay off the latest death for one day."

"Why would they disguise the true date of Eddowes' demise? The man asked dubiously.

Richard smiled thinly, "That is because the Ripper had left us a message. It was discovered that the apron belonging to Eddowes was stolen upon her death and it was found again, bloodstained, outside a tenement block in Goulston Street. Above this was a message written in blood."

"What did it say?"

"_The Jews are the men who will be blamed for nothing _or something along those lines, either way the police constable demanded for it to be washed off immediately."

"Do they believe that Jack the Ripper is Jewish?" The man asked bluntly.

"They're as clueless as the rest of us regarding the Ripper's identity," Richard said with his hands splayed, "But racial tensions in Whitechapel have gotten worse in recent times and this would be the perfect catalyst to cause suspicion and at worse mass riots."

The man turned his head towards the floor. He knew this to be true. London isn't the most tolerant place in the world, with the class system elevating the middle class and further beating the working class down into the dirt the people have to direct their infinite frustration at something and who better than the many immigrants who are taking the few jobs and homes that the city has to spare?

London was fast approaching. An unnerving cloud of black smog and fumes levitated over the great capital like a shroud. The smoke coming from the city was so thick it looked like a great dragon was blowing it up from the middle of the city, although it accorded to the man that what they were going to face in that darkened city was very real and much more deadly than any creature of myth.

The whistle on the train sliced through the air. They had arrived.

They both hurried off the train and, after manoeuvring through the suffocating mass of passengers scurrying off to god knows where, found a taxi cab waiting for them.

"Alright there, Archie?" Richard yelled through cupped hands at the driver with the reins.

The old man in the front seat shrugged indifferently, "I'm driving alone through the city alone in the middle of the night, every night, with a murdering madman on the loose, aye I'm living the bloody dream here!" He said with the combination of outstretched arms and a husky Scottish accent.

Richard chuckled at this as he helped his former master with his suitcase, which weighed a tonne, into the cab. He saw his master struggling with it.

"Getting frail old ma…ow! He had started before his former master smacked him across the side of his head.

"Still don't know when to shut up eh Dick?"

The cab pulled up beside a tenement block and, after Richard paid the fare, stepped inside and started up the stairs.

"This is your house?" The man asked curiously.

"Yep, it's not much but its home."

The man took a look at the squint paintings on the walls which were slathered with a thick coating of duct and the warped wooden banisters. "It'll suffice." He mumbled grumpily.

Richard stopped so abruptly that the man almost smacked his face off his back. "Excuse me? I believe it was _your idea _to stay in that brothel in Madrid!"

"That wasn't as bad as you're making it out to be."

"We barely got out alive!"

"Hey, I was drunk and how was I meant to know that that girl didn't work there….or that she was married?"

"You're a twisted old pervert." Richard shook his head but still hiding a grin.

His flat was on the 2nd floor and the second they walked through the door Richard was tackled by a young girl in a pink dress.

"Daddy!" The young girl shrieked as she buried her head into his clothes.

The man stood there confused and petrified. _Daddy? _When did that happen?

"Mummy, Daddy's home!" The girl took off like a bolt of lightning into what the man assumed to be the kitchen. A young woman stepped out of the room, whom she assumed to be Richard's spouse. She had her auburn hair tied back in a ponytail, her eyes warm and brown and her face as calm and fresh as a summer flower. She was one of the most beautiful women that he had ever seen in all his travels…. How did an idiot like Dick manage to do this well?

She outstretched her arms, "Hello there my name's Stacy, I'm Richard's wife and you must be his _father,_" before he could do anything she had already pulled him into a tight hug.

This had shocked him even more than the fact that his apprentice had a wife and child, _"Father?"_ he mouthed while still in the hug.

_"Please just play along." _Richard mouthed while making a pleading gesture with his hands.

The man closed his eyes and exhaled heavily, _I'm going to kill him, _he thought in his head. Stacy finally released him from her embrace.

"I'm sorry, it's just it's great to finally meet you, Richard talks about you all the time." She said cheerfully.

"Does he now?" The man said through nearly clenched teeth which he somehow twisted into a weird looking smile, "Well..um.." he had seen the little girl staring up at him with wide eyes, he awkwardly patted her on the head and walked over to Richard.

"If u will be so kind as to excuse us," He jabbed his finger into a pressure point in his former student's ribcage, it took all his restraint not to cry out, "We have some catching up to do."

Richard and his 'father' walked towards the bedroom that he and Stacy shared while the little girl tugged on her mother's apron.

"Grandad's strange."

They entered the bedroom and the man closed the door.

Richard turned to face his pretend father, "Well I must say I think you handled that rather we…" Richard began before the man grabbed the back of Richard's head, brought it forward and smacked his forehead into the closed door.

"Jesus chri…what was that for?" He cried while clutching his forehead with both hands.

"Talk. Now." The man responded.

"Ok ok, I told her parents that my father was a retired politician who lived in the countryside and rarely visited due to illness."

"Why the hell would you lie to your father in law like that?"

"So that I could marry Stacy in the first place!" The man looked confused at this. Richard sighed. "Come on, do you really think that he'd let me, an orphan with no real money to speak of and of such low social class, marry his only daughter? No, but an ambassador who's the son of a prestigious politician…."

"But what's the point of all of this?"

Richard shrugged, "I loved her from the first time I met her, I would do anything to be with her."

The man sighed. He couldn't judge the boy for that. He himself knew how strong a force that love could be, a fact which he had thoroughly learned a long time ago.

"Where did the ambassador thing come from?"

"Well I can't exactly tell her father that I kill people for a living can I? But I also have to justify my being absent a lot of the time, so foreign ambassador it was, plus it made it seem like I was following my father's footsteps in politics."

"Makes sense, sorry about your head."

"It's alright; I probably should've given you a heads-up first." Richard laughed, back to his old self again.

There came a knock at the front door, Stacy answered it just as the 2 men were coming out of the bedroom. A hooded man walked through the door, adorned in the same robes as the man and Richard. This man, whoever he was, was without doubt, an assassin.

"Hello there, Arthur." Stacy smiled softly at their enigmatic guest. Arthur pulled his hood down.

"Good to see you again Stacy, is Richard about?" His accent had a comic cockney tinge which made the man beside Richard snigger slightly, even after all the times he had heard it before.

Arthur scanned the area like an eagle ( with his pointy nose he certainly looked like one ) until his eyes set on Richard and the other man.

"Ah there you are…oh my god…Carter… is that you?" He sounded both happy and shocked at the same time. His mouth was moving slightly as if he was speaking but forgot to make any sounds after he said this.

"You seem surprised," Carter responded while glancing at Richard, "I thought that I was expected here?"

"Oh no you were it's just… I didn't believe it at first I never thought you'd return after…" He ceased after Richard shot him a venomous look.

Arthur wondered why until he realised that Stacy was still standing there beside him, looking more confused than Arthur was when he first walked in. He stood erect and became 'all business' again.

"Right, you two had better come with me," He gulped,_"_ _Crawford wants to speak with you."_


	3. Chapter 3

**Assassin's Creed: Allegiance**

**Chapter 3**

The cab rumbled along the busy street passing by beggars, merchants and MPs alike. They all looked the same to Archie, just irritating people who clamber in the back of his cab drunk in the middle of the night rambling on like possessed people about "that dirty whore" or "I had so many dreams", after 20 years of that he had just gotten sick of it all. The terrible monotony of petty public servitude had hardened him beyond caring about his 'passengers' problems. His life had been totally without purpose.

That was until the assassin's found him.

He smiled fondly as he recounted his first interaction with the infamous killers. He found that with age time didn't seem as vast as it once was in his youth. He remembered the incident like it had happened yesterday, even though it was over 3 years ago.

He had finished up for the night; he had parked his cab beside the rank and started the short 20 minute walk home. It was a cold night, he could still recall the moment when his hands had turned an ugly purple colour and he had to shove them abruptly into his coat pocket. His breath was coming out in slow, almost mechanical streams. Every time he took a breath it filled his lungs with ice cold air which quickly started to burn the inside of his nose.

He heard footsteps behind him. He quickened his pace without looking back. The footsteps got closer.

Suddenly a pair of strong hands grabbed both of his arms and restrained them both behind him, when he struggled his assailant gave his hands a painful twist and he cried out in agony.

He heard a cruel laugh and a second person walked out in front of him. He had red hair, shabby clothes and looked like he had just crawled out of a sewage system. The fact that he swayed side to side like a confused crab made it seem like he was very drunk.

"Well what do we have here?" He breathed out. His unfocused eyes and toxic breath added to Archie's theory of his attackers being severely inebriated.

His attacker had previously had a massive, almost comical, grin on his face but after seeing Archie's generic look his smile disappeared. He brought his fist back and slugged Archie hard in the jaw.

Archie blinked slowly and spat out blood (and probably a tooth as well). He probed his mouth with his tongue. _Aye, that's a tooth gone now. _He thought to himself. The sour metallic taste in his mouth had overpowered the burning sensation in his nose.

His reaction prompted a laugh from his oppressors. The red haired one then pulled out a butcher's knife from his coat. The blade reflected the orange-yellow light from the gas lamps at the side of the road.

_This is it. _Archie thought. He closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable thrust of the blade into his chest or stomach. He stood there, defenceless, imagining all the creative ways in which he could be killed with that knife. It wouldn't be over quickly; in his attacker's inebriated state he would be sloppy with the blade, which meant only prolonged agony.

Nothing of the sort followed. He had heard the red haired man with the knife laugh giddily like a child with a toy but that had now been replaced with a soft, gurgling sound.

He opened his eyes and stared blankly at the sight before him. The man's whole body was twitching wildly like a man possessed. His eyes were rolled up into the back of his head and bloody poured from his mouth. The strangest sight of all was that he could swear he saw a small, metal point protruding through the front of his neck...

The knife finally dropped and there was a disturbing squelching sound as the weapon was removed from the red haired man's neck. He dropped down instantly. He was dead before his head hit the ground.

His killer stood behind the body. He was dressed completely in black, near invisible in the night, and had a hood pulled over his eyes, only his emotionless mouth showed that he had a face at all. His right arm was bent at the elbow so that his forearm was above his head. There seemed to be a sort of blade coming out of the bottom of his wrist, which was now stained in blood. His legs were spread apart and his blade was held parallel to the ground but in line with his head. Some kind of fighting stance Archie assumed.

He could hear the frantic; fear fuelled breathing of the man who had him restrained. He couldn't blame him; Archie was just as terrified of this stranger as he was.

Without warning the stranger clenched his fist and the blade flew like a bullet, narrowly missing Archie's ear. The grip on his arms loosened and the man collapsed onto his back, the blade lodged in his eyeball.

Archie was shivering, not just from the cold but from fear. Two people had just died…no… two people had just been _murdered_ right before his eyes and for all he knew he could be next.

He froze in terror as the murderer strode towards him. He walked right past him, crouched down and retrieved his blade from the other man's eye socket. He clicked the blade back into the device on his wrist. Silence followed, neither saying a word. Finally the stranger pulled his hood down and spoke;

"You know every street in London do you not?" The stranger asked flatly.

"We-we-well a-aye I suppose I do." Archie bumbled out; he was caught off guard by the sudden question. It was a relief to know that he wasn't next on the hit list though.

"How would you like to be something more than just a simple cab driver?"

"I'm not killing anyone!" Archie spat out immediately.

The stranger laughed loudly, "No of course not, I mean simply as…how do I put it? You would be my eyes and ears in the city? Yes…I like the sound of that."

"As a spy you mean? But who would I be spying on and why?"

The stranger smiled warmly, "That my friend is a _long_ story but I'll be willing to tell it," he held out his hand, "If you agree to work for us."

Archie shook his new acquaintance's hand, ever conscious of the blood-stained blade that was hiding up there.

Richard was the assassin from 3 years ago. The one who had saved Archie's life and the one he owed a debt to. He had explained the basic facts of the assassin's war with their Templar enemies. His job was to carry on with life as normal but report any possible Templar activity to the assassins. A simple enough job but much more exciting than just a cab driver, he was now part of something much bigger than himself.

Carter was sitting with his walking stick across his lap and his chin resting on his closed fist, looking out of the window at the city he had left behind.

Richard was hunched over with his hands clasped together and looking at the floor. Dreading secretly what Crawford wants him to do next.

Arthur sat opposite them both, his hands drumming his open hands on his kneecaps and glancing at both assassins opposite him, desperate to break the tension. He hated silence. Not the best trait for a 'silent' killer but he was one of the best shots in the order and in recent times the order wasn't going to turn down skilled recruits, no matter how annoying they may be.

The cab went over a bump in the road which brought them all to attention with a start. Good thing too, they had arrived at the base of the London branch of the assassin order.

Archie knocked on the roof of the cab, "Welcome to the Tower Of London, now; get your arses out before I charge you for the trip!"

Crossing the drawbridge above the oyster-filled moat which surrounded the massive fortress brought back many memories for Richard.

The glimpses of his training and initiation into the order came flooding back like a roaring tide. He could remember how terrified he was one night when he was practicing his free-running on the green tower when he slipped and his foot hit one of the bricks and it fell onto the ground with a heavy thump right beside a beefeater guard. Richard was too scared to breath, all the guard had to do was look up and he would be done for. The whole Tower was under Templar control so if he was caught then nothing could be done for him.

The beefeater had simply picked up the brick, turned it around in his palms and dropped it again with disinterest; he probably thought a raven had knocked it off or something. There were a lot of ravens here. They took residence in a tower that was frankly unimaginably named 'Ravens' Tower'. There was an interesting prophesy that if the ravens were to ever migrate from the tower the monarchy would fall.

"We should be so lucky." Richard mumbled to himself.

"What?"

Richard recoiled slightly and found Carter staring at him dubiously. The sight of his former master reminded him of the sullen, solitary man who watched him train with his arms folded and expression set in stone. He had never known if he had approved or disapproved of his progress until the day he had been accepted into the order. His master had worn an expression which was the closest thing to pride that Richard had ever seen on him.

Arthur walked out in front, his hood over his head just like the others, glancing side to side nervously. By all rights they shouldn't be here. This was enemy territory but at the same time this was the perfect hiding place. It was highly doubtful that the Templars would search for their enemies in their most heavily defended stronghold in Britain. Although their security wasn't as formidable as they claimed. The beefeaters were unobservant imbeciles who just stood there (granted with large pikes) doing nothing. Proof of the issue was the fact that one of the frequently practiced qualifying trails for assassins was sneaking into the waterloo barracks, making it all the way to the jewel room and back out without receiving a complimentary pike in the gizzard from the guards. There have been few failures; whether that was due to the trainee's remarkable skills or the beefeater's gross incompetence is still an argued point among the higher ranked assassins.

They approached the chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula. This has only been the meeting place of the assassins for 12 years. They had been betrayed by one of their brothers and their previous base had caught fire by "accident". They had come here and restored the chapel from its depraved state (the rumour was that Carter was in charge of the restoration project) and it still looks brand new even after 12 years.

They walked right into the chapel, one of the reasons for the chapel being the choice of their main base was that with their hooded appearance they looked like clergymen and so blended in perfectly with the silent men setting up the alter for Sunday service kneeling at the front of the chapel with their hands clasped in prayer.

Arthur led them to the two person confession booth and stepped inside and closed the door. It was completely dark save for the light coming from the small patterned holes in the door.

"What is it that troubles you my son?" Spoke a deep voice from the other booth.

Carter threw open the door of Arthurs booth and leant over the startled man, "What troubles me is that I have been dragged halfway across the country, I haven't eaten or slept in nearly a day and you're here pissing around with codes when you clearly know who we are!" He snapped.

Richard shared a wide-eyed look with Arthur, although the later looked more scared, while Carter stared at the covered up holes in the wall.

They heard a noise that was close to a growl from the other side, "Carter, you haven't changed at all have you?"

"If I had then I wouldn't be here."

"Good point." At this there came a clicking sound from the other booth and the back of Arthur's booth slid into the ground revealing a staircase leading downwards. The three assassins hurried into the passageway; the booth wall slid back into its original place 3 seconds later.

When the dark trip down the stone steps ended they entered a large well gas-lit room with portraits on the walls of past leaders of the order, bookshelves which put even Carter's extensive collection to shame. There was also a large cabinet which took up most of a wall that was closed but all in the room knew it contained every kind exotic weapon from vials of African black cobra venom to Chinese-constructed crossbows.

At the far end resided a large oak table with many chairs around it; of which only one had someone sitting down.

He was dressed in a black hooded robe similar to the other assassins but the seated man's robes had red patterns on his own robes, the masterful work of a talented embroider from the Middle East.

He had a worn, leathery face with a well-trimmed snow white beard and piercing, blue, hawk-like eyes which seemed to stab through your very soul. _What knowledge and secrets were hidden behind those somehow inhuman eyes? _Carter had wondered on so many occasions before and that was exactly what he was thinking now more than ever.

The man in the chair was the leader of the assassin's order. _Crawford. _Whether that was his real name or an alias is a mystery to all except him and he seems to prefer it that way.

Crawford rose from the ornate chair slowly; his eyes fixed on his three visitors, his gaze primarily on Carter. He started to walk towards him and the other did the same until they stopped about a meter away from one another. They stood staring at each other fearsomely, willing the other to back down.

"Carter."

"Crawford."

"You look tired."

"You look like shit too, _master_" Carter replied flatly.

Crawford smiled thinly, "I see you're still an arrogant little shit."

"Nice to see you're still a senile, old windbag as well." Cater gave a sarcastic smile in return.

Richard leaned towards Arthur, "You think we should leave the loving couple in private?" He sniggered.

"Shut up Dick!" Both Crawford and Carter snapped in unison while amazingly keeping the staring contest going.

Richard's face flushed in embarrassment while Arthur was turned away with his hand over his mouth to try and make the fact that he was laughing hysterically less obvious.

Crawford broke away first and started walking back to the table. He sat down and gestured for the others to do the same. They did so without complaint. They sat in a tense silence for a few dragging seconds.

Richard shattered it, "So what're we going to do about Jack the Ripper?"

Crawford shrugged, "Well I suppose that is the only question that matters right now. Do you have any ideas, Carter?"

All eyes were on Carter now.

Carter shrugged, "Slit the sick bastard's throat." He said simply.

Crawford rolled his eyes, "You think so? Personally I was thinking of giving him a medal."

"Ok stop it both of you," Richard glared at the two men; both were equally surprised at the tone of authority in his voice.

"Ok," Crawford leant back and intertwined his fingers (a habit eerily similar to Carter's), "What do you suggest, Richard?"

"Well...um," He cleared his throat quickly," We really shouldn't be discussing about what to do with the Ripper but rather how to _find _him in the first place."

No one objected. He continued.

"So to do that I think we first need to assess how the killer is getting around the city. I highly doubt that he's simply walking the streets as a solitary man in black skulking around would look too suspicious, especially now that people are on the alert."

"How do you think he's getting around then?" Carter asked with his head balanced on top of his closed fist.

"I personally think that he's using the sewage system. I mean provided that he knows his way around he could theoretically go anywhere in the city unseen."

Crawford tilted his head to the side, "A plausible theory." He admitted.

"What about the smell?" Arthur chimed in.

All eyes turned on him and he recoiled slightly, unused to the attention, "Well would there be a smell lingering around the scene of the crime? You know, considering where he came from?"

"I doubt it would be noticed to be honest." Richard replied.

"Why do you say that?"

"Have you been to the poorer areas of Whitechapel recently? They don't exactly smell like rose baths."

"You're forgetting about footprints." Carter cut in. He was still in the same relaxed position as before. When he saw his former apprentice's questioning look he elaborated.

"Say your theory's true about him moving around in the sewage system, if that were so then his feet would be soaked from his sub-terrain travels. That would leave very noticeable footprints at the scenes of the murders. Since the newspapers say nothing about there being any footprints and no evidence of them being cleaned away, we must assume that there were none. This disproves your theory I'm afraid."

"O…oh I see…" Richard's eyes feel to the table and he started shifting uncomfortably with embarrassment.

"Don't be so harsh on the boy Carter, at least he's thinking." Crawford urged.

Carter grunted guiltily, "I have a theory of my own." He pointed upwards with his index finger.

Crawford understood immediately. "You think he's using the rooftops?"

Carter nodded grimly.

Crawford leant forward," I don't like what you're implying." He shook his head as he said this.

Carter leant forwards on one elbow, "Can you look me in the eye and say that the thought hasn't occurred to you as well?"

Crawford's shot down towards the table and back up so fast that Carter wasn't one hundred per cent sure that he had done it. This was interesting; Crawford shared the same doubts as he did.

Arthur butted in, "Have any of you considered that this may be a Templar plot?"

"I have," Carter was still balancing on his elbow but he had the forearm raised, "But I seriously doubt that it's them."

"Oh I see so you would gladly incriminate your own brothers before our worst enemies?" Crawford had his teeth bared in anger. This was one of the few times where he looked like he would _really_ lose his temper.

Carter splayed both arms, "I hate the Templars as much as you do I assure you, all I am saying is that this isn't their style at all. Yes, they will of course kill in cold blood for their own ends but that would be a person of importance or a potential threat to them such as a politician who is clearly against them or even so far as a member of the monarchy but random prostitutes? I fail to see the logic."

"The man has a point." Arthur nodded in agreement. He and Richard both looked on to Crawford, who had calmed down and whose eyes were darting from left to right, clearly considering Carter's theory.

"Okay," He clapped his hands together and kept them clasped, "We'll stop theorising for now and start investigating. Arthur?" He nodded to the young assassin. "I want you to organise patrol sentries on the rooftops of Whitechapel, mainly in the poorer areas, in case Carter's theory of the Ripper being a free-runner turns out to be true. I don't want even a crow walking on those rooftops without me knowing about it, understood?" He stared intently.

Arthur rose and bowed with his right forearm over his chest, "Understood." He then left the room.

The room was quite now. Richard found himself slightly nervous about what would be asked of him and his former master.

"Carter, Richard," Crawford nodded at them both in succession, "I want you to find and interview George Lusk, the head of the Whitechapel vigilante committee. They have taken it upon themselves to patrol the streets at night in search of the murderer. Their intentions seem to be noble but they're essentially amateurs. I want you to speak with them, convince them to work together with us. We are very low in number as of late so we need all the help we can get."

"Very well," Carter nodded slowly, "How should I go about it then?"

"Do I have to come up with everything?" Crawford rubbed his eyes with one hand while trying his hardest to disguise a yawn with the other, "Just do what you have to do."

On that note the two assassins got up and started to leave, they ascended the stone staircase, leaving the ancient master assassin to get some long overdue rest.

Two men leant against the wall of the bar opposite the Tower of London. They were smoking tobacco that was, according to the merchant, over 17 years old and grown in a private tobacco field in the orient or something to that effect. To be honest he didn't care, he just wanted a change from the usual shit that he normally had to suck into his lungs. There wasn't much noticeable difference; years of smoking had obliterated his sense of taste long ago.

His friend gave him a nudge and gestured towards the drawbridge with his rolled up cigarette. There were two hooded men hurrying over the drawbridge and down the street, frequently checking their backs as they went.

"Well," one of the men took a long draw on his cigarette then exhaled the puff of smoke slowly, "I never thought that I'd see _him _again."

The other man looked perplexed, "What do you mean", he arched his neck to try and see the man that he was referring to."

"I need you to deliver a message for me. I'm sure that our brothers will be pleased with this development."

"I'm sorry but I have no idea what you're on about. The other man shook his head."

The man rolled his eyes, "Look just let our bosses know that _the mercury hunter_ has returned; he'll know what that means."

The other man, though confused, obliged and hurried away down the street.

The man who had remained flicked his cigarette away and snuffed it out with his shoe. He walked away with a massive grin on his face. He mumbled to himself gleefully;

_ "Yes, I'm certain that the Templars would love to hear that Carter Jackson, the mercury hunter, has returned to London."_


	4. Chapter 4

**Assassin's Creed: Allegiance**

**Chapter 4**

A thick shroud of fog snaked around the poor district of Whitechapel like a great serpent. It ensnared buildings, cabs and drunken pedestrians alike. The orange lights from the gas lampposts on the streets appeared to dance in mid-air as their dark metal bodies were obscured by the smokescreen that resided there.

Joseph Lawende was at home in his quint little house, it wasn't much but it was one of the few homes in the district which wasn't part of a multiple tenement flat. He smiled to himself at the thought of this; it gave him a sense of wealth above the rest of his fellow men in this particular district, even though he knew that the higher classes would sooner spit on him than admit he was in any way wealthy.

He collapsed into his green coloured armchair with a powerful exhale. It had been a hard day in the factory but it was now over. He had run ragged today chasing after his bosses asking for the orders sheets, his arms ached from helping to take in the deliveries of heavy industrial machinery as the recent flu had left them severely understaffed. He couldn't help it; he was a 'pencil pusher' as the large, burley men on the factory floor referred to him as, not used to hard labour as they were.

He had several miniature gas lamps installed on the walls of his living room which bathed the room in a warm tangerine glow. He had a copy of 'The times' in his hand and was flicking through the pages trying to find something interesting. He stopped suddenly when he stumbled across a story which sent a chill racing down his spine;

Ripper sends out warning to police informant

_ As many of our loyal readers with remember we mentioned before that during the murder of Miss Catherine Eddowes the perpetrator was caught in the act by a passer-by. The man of course bravely went to the police with a description in an attempt to aid them in the capture of this malicious creature but this may have been an unwise decision on his part. Below is a transcript of a letter which is believed to be from the Ripper himself. God help the poor soul of whom the letter refers to._

_** You thought your-self very clever I reckon when you informed the police. But you made a mistake if you thought I didn't see you. Now I know that you know me and I see your little game, and I mean to finish you and send your ears to your wife if you show this to the police or help them I will finish you. It is no use in you trying to get out of my way. Because I will have you when you don't expect it and I keep my word that you will soon see me as I rip you up.**_

_** Yours truly, Jack the Ripper.**_

_** P.S. You see I know your address**_

__ The room suddenly became deathly cold. The pervious warmth that the fireplace in the room gave out had no effect on Joseph's body now. His breathing came in rapid bursts. He was afraid…no…terrified. He was just threatened by a serial killer, in front of the whole country!

He was there that night; he had seen the unholy monster hold that woman, oh that poor, poor woman, by the throat with one hand while brandishing a large knife in the other. Then the killer then turned to face him…

What else could he do? What else would anyone else in his position had done? He ran. He had never run so fast in his life but he had escaped almost certain death.

At least that's what he had thought at the time.

The sound of shattering glass and a shrieking alley cat outside nearly caused Joseph to have a heart attack. He sat clutching his chest while smiling hysterically.

"What kind of stupor have I worked myself into? It was probably just a hoax…yes…a hoax by some sick lunatic…nothing to be scared of." He almost believed it.

He rose from his chair and looked outside his window to inspect the sound. Nothing was outside but the thick fog. He turned as he thought he heard the sounds of footsteps behind him.

He turned to face a dark cloaked figure that moved at lightning fast speed. He grabbed Joseph's shoulder, pulled him forwards and drove a long blade right into his throat. Joseph tried to scream but no sound came out as his throat was clogged with blood which also leaked out in a small stream from his mouth with a sick choking sound. His eyes rolled back into his head and his body went limp.

The killer retried his blade and the body dropped to the floor. The figure regarded it with little interest. This was not the first kill and it would not be the last. Oh no far from it…

The killer inspected the blood-stained blade which took Joseph's life. He turned it around in his hands, fascinated.

_Ah I just remembered; he has a wife. He thought to himself._

A wide, cruel smile spread across the murderer's face as he made the first cut on the left ear.

The two assassins approached "The Ten Bells" pub, probably the hundredth pub that they had searched so far. Their task was a simple one, to find and interview George Lusk and determine whether or not he was a suitable ally or troublesome nuisance. However the problem seemed to be _finding_ him in the first place. Whitechapel is a big place, a man cannot be easily found, especially considering they didn't even know what he looked like. All that the manager of his firm could divulge to them was that he was a man of medium height in his late forties with a bushy moustache below his small nose.

Yes, he certainly narrowed the possibilities with that description.

All they really know about the vigilante committee which Lusk led was that they met in a pub, but considering the committee members keep to themselves when their involvement is questioned; nobody in the order knew which.

Carter sighed bitterly. For all he knew this was another wasted journey. It didn't help that suspicion had soaked deep into the core of Whitechapel right now; trusting your fellow man in recent times seemed ill-advised. Even if he did in fact find his man, would he admit to it; for all Lusk knew the man inquiring could be Jack the Ripper himself. How did he know that he hadn't already found George Lusk in one his many interviews but he simply denied his true identity?

They both stood beneath the sign labelled "The ten bells" hanging from two thin chains on a horizontal pole which swung slightly in the midday breeze.

"You know the plan right?" Carter nodded to Richard.

"Yeah, I know." Richard exhaled glumly. He was clearly sick of their monotonous man-hunt as well.

The long ago established 'plan' was that Carter would go inside to search for their man while Richard waited outside. This was a preferable arrangement because if two figures started interviewing then they would not only look too much like the police but it also means that if the worst should happen, and the target runs for it, Richard will be right outside ready to tackle him if necessary.

"I still don't understand why I'm always the one on guard duty." Richard huffed.

"I'm better at interviewing; you're too nice about it."

"At least nobody has run from me mid-interview. Richard muttered.

"No," Carter admitted, "They just tell you to piss off."

Richard couldn't deny that. He could say what he wanted about Carter but his master knew how to get things done, and he realised that, to a complete stranger, he looked absolutely terrifying. That made him better for the task at hand, it didn't however, mean that Richard had to be happy about it.

He leant against the wall with his arms crossed while Carter opened the creaky wooden door and entered.

Carter taking a step inside the bar had the same effect as a priest rising in church. Silence and inevitable attention, all eyes were on him. Well-dressed men smoking pipes ceased mid-puff and observed their visitor. The elderly men playing bridge in the corner on a small wooden table merely glanced up; concerned with little else but the cards lay out on the table. The bartender simply eyed him with obvious disinterest, this wasn't the only strange man to walk into his pub and he won't be the last. Only one man did not turn around, he wore a bowler hat and had a pint of bitter beside him.

Carter approached the bar and sat beside the punter at the bar. The man fitted the specifications exactly. He seemed to be the correct age but the bags around his eyes confirmed that sleep had seemed to elude him for a night or two at least. His moustache was as bushy as rumoured, with some strands of grey in them. He wore a simple bowler hat upon his head which was slightly elevated by curly dark-brown hair that escaped from under it.

"George Lusk, I presume?" Carter said flatly in the man's direction.

The man, Lusk, gave Carter a wide eyed glance before rising suddenly; escape clearly on his mind.

With his right arm hidden by his body Carter grabbed George's shoulder with his left hand, stopping him from rising any further.

"Sit," As he spoke he flicked his wrist and his hidden blade emerged from the wrist of his right hand for emphasis, unseen by the onlookers behind him, "Down."

George swallowed hard and complied; the blade retracted with another simple wrist flick. The two men sat in an awkward silence for a minute or two; the white, fizzling froth atop the pint glass was already beginning to dissolve.

"Are you here to kill me?" Lusk sounded like he couldn't care less about the response; almost like he anticipated he would perish by the stranger's hand the minute he walked into the pub.

Carter shrugged. "If I had, then your neck wouldn't still be in one piece right now."

George narrowed his eyes. "Then what do you want from me, _assassin_?

Carter recoiled slightly, eyes widened. How? How is it possible that this man even knows that the order exists; let alone be able to recognise one of its members?

Lusk smiled slightly at Carter's reaction. "Don't worry yourself, my order knows much about yours including the frequent use of that contraption on your wrist." He nodded at Carter's right hand.

"_Your_ order," Carter raised his right hand slightly; ready to flick if necessary, "what order would that be?"

"Not the one you're thinking of I assure you," George said seriously, "The Templars' cause is in no way akin to our own"

"What order?" Carter demanded a little too loudly.

George rolled down the sleeve of his shirt. Tattooed on his right wrist, below his palm, was a builder's square and a compass adjacent to one another.

Carter sighed with relief. So, this man was a Freemason. That was good; the Freemasons were decent men with (normally) good intentions. Their order focuses on the idea of helping others in the community and encourages their members to lead honest lives. They don't discriminate between races, anyone can join them, they don't even have a leader as their order's laws dictate that no one man can possibly speak for them all.

George rolled his sleeve back up. "So, you know who I am and I know who you are. Now I'll ask again, what do you want from me?"

"I think you already know the answer to that."

"Jack the ripper?"

"That's the one."

Even the mention of the infamous title seemed to make the temperature of the room drop a few degrees. Carter thought it was his imagination but he had the slightest feeling that he was being watched. He tried to dismiss it; but he knew better than to ignore his instincts. He would have to make this quick.

"Look I like what you're doing here I really do, but I've seen this kind of thing before. An unorganised mob will cause havoc despite how pure their intentions are. Trust me."

"So do you expect me to let this murderer roam free?" George snarled.

"On the contrary, I suggest we work together. The assassins are trying to catch this killer as well but our forces are spread out too thin across the country. You have many men involved in your committee, we could help you be more effective and teach you our methods of tracking and, if necessary, apprehension."

George considered this. His facial expression confirmed that he seemed to like this idea. He rubbed his moustache thoughtfully.

"I must admit I'm intrigued by your offer, I certainly need the help," he tilted his head to the side, "but how do I know I can trust you?"

"You don't, but you don't really have much of a choice do you?" Carter held out his hand.

George snorted in response. "I suppose I don't." He shook Carter's outstretched hand.

"Well, I'd better be off," Carter glanced behind him and reached into his robe and pulled out a dusty grey wig and started to put it on, "where and when do you and your committee meet?"

George raised his eyebrows at the sight of the assassin trying to pull the wig over his head. "Umm…well… every Friday at 7 but…," Carter brought out a pair of wire rimmed spectacles and tried them on, "Ok what the hell are you doing?"

Carter, who now looked like an old man, looked at him with a generic stare. "I'm going for a walk, of course."

George burst out laughing. This man, who he's leaving the fate of his committee and, possibly, the whole of Whitechapel, was dressing up to gallivant as an old man for god knows what purpose.

Carter hunched over and started walking with a limp, using his stick a lot more frequently now, ignoring the startled looks of the other punters. He opened the doors and, with the sunlight magnified through his spectacles which made him squint slightly, and stepped outside.

"Yes," he muttered under his breath, "just a nice, _uneventful_, walk in the sun."

Since joining the assassin's order at a very young age Richard had grown accustomed to strange things. His training taught him to be ready for anything and to adapt to a variety of dangerous situations or risk meeting a potentially horrifying end.

He was not however, prepared for a hunched-back OAP throwing open the door of the pub and starting to drag him away by his elbow.

"What the…let me go you scraggy old piece of…" The old man smacked Richard across the head. He knew immediately after that it was Carter in disguise; only his master hit him like that.

"Master, why are you dressed like a homeless person?"

"Do you want me to slap you again, Dick?" Carter replied gruffly.

"Master," Richard grabbed Carter's arm which caused his spectacle shielded eyes to glare at him, Richard gave him a serious look in return, "What's going on?"

Carter suddenly grabbed Richard's collar and yanked his head down to his hunched level and they both continued to walk at a rather painful, knee-buckling pace.

"Listen to me," He started in harsh, quick whispers into Richard's ear, "We're being followed. We have been since we left the tower, I wasn't sure of it until I entered the bar, one of the men was opposite the tower when we left and his expression when he saw me gave him away."

Richard nodded, "Templar agents?"

Carter glanced in both directions before answering," I'm almost certain of it," he licked his lips quickly, "Look, Richard, for the next few minutes I need you to do exactly as I tell you immediately and without argument, do you understand?" His grip on his apprentices' collar tightened.

Richard could only nod in response. He knew this was serious; they had enough problems without the Templars on their backs.

Carter released Richard from his grip and continued walking like the old man whom he was impersonating. He still hadn't answered why he wore the disguise if his pursuer already knew what he looked like.

They turned a corner and a lump formed in Richard's throat. There was a horse-drawn police carriage which had two officers walking alongside it. They approached the two men.

The older of the two officers addressed Carter, "Hello there sir could I ask you some questions about the recent violence in the area?" He was a red faced man who obviously smoked because he practically heaved out every syllable of speech.

Carter smiled a wide, senile looking smile and started muttering to himself, or at least that's what the officer saw, Richard knew him well enough to know he was mouthing a command to him.

"When I act, run immediately."

Carter's smile disappeared and after a quick nod to Richard he slid his hand up his walking stick and suddenly stood up straight.

Richard bolted and Carter used the time granted by the officer's surprise and brought around the stick in a lightning quick arc and smacked the officer in the jaw.

Chaos erupted at the sickening crunch and the officer's moans of agony as he collapsed in a writhing heap while clutching his bloody jaw. People all around started milling around and yelling, Richard was already long gone, exactly as Carter had instructed him to do so.

Suddenly there was a sharp pain in the back of his neck and he slumped to his knees with a grunt. Before he lost consciousness he felt the cold metal of handcuffs digging into his wrists and being hauled towards the carriage which at the point was just a blur of blacks and browns.


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey guys sorry it took so long and also sorry if the German is confusing but there are translations at the bottom...reviews are very much appreciated :)**

* * *

**Assassin's Creed: Allegiance**

**Chapter 5**

_Outskirts of Munich, Germany _

The torrential rain battered the wooden roof of the carriage as it rumbled along the flooded dirt path; every puddle and pothole which caught the wheels would nearly throw the elderly occupant out of the window, which due to the owner of the carriage's obvious cheapness had no glass in them. The driver at the reins had a depressed expression upon his tight, leathery face. This was most likely attributed to the fact that his only protection from the relentless storm was a grey trench coat which had gone from its crisp grey shade to a sullen, black, wet mess of a thing which only succeeded in keeping him in a cold, damp grip for the remainder of the drive.

The carriage came to a halt outside a dark, sinister U-shaped building with only one large wooden door for an entrance. Two black-hooded guards stood outside, though they may as well have been statues as they stood so still. They had their heads bowed and held a long wooden staff in front of them with both hands, this too was immobile. The wooden sign above them read: _Schnitters Wache._

The driver stepped down with a wet squelch and trudged through the soaked mud to open the carriage door.

"And here I was thinking that the weather back in England was horrifying." Crawford then stepped out; his hood prematurely over his head. He turned to the driver.

_"Warte hier, bis ich zurück bekommen Sie?"_

The driver nodded and retreated sensibly inside his carriage.

Crawford took a look at the sign of the building and exhaled loudly, his misty breath quickly obliterated by the aquatic barrage from above. He approached the building briskly yet cautiously, he knew these people and more importantly, how they greeted visitors.

However when he wasn't even a metre away from the front door the hooded golems heads shot up, they tapped the sticks on the ground twice and a long scythe blade slid out of the top of each of them, they then crossed each weapon over effectively blocking the door. The golems wore black masks which covered their mouths but their eyes, bloodshot and like a rapid dog, were what really inspired dread. Crawford knew that the golems would cut him up in an instant on command from their masters.

Suddenly the golems spoke in unison, "Nichts ist wahr ..." Their tone was deep yet generic, as if the words they spoke no longer held any meaning to them.

Crawford smiled slightly and held both hands up, flicked his wrists and two hidden blades emerged, one from each hand, "alles ist erlaubt." He replied confidently.

The golems, showing no satisfaction of any kind, tapped the sticks three times and the scythe blades retracted. They then returned to their previous positions, not uttering another word. Crawford guessed that they were disappointed at not being able to use their lovely blades on him.

He banged on the door three times and it was answered almost immediately by a tall blonde man in green hooded robes.

"Ah Crawford mein alter Freund, wie bist du gewesen?" Although they were near Munich, Crawford always noted that the man he was here to meet had a definite Berlin accent, he also frequently wondered what he had done to end up in this lowly branch of the brotherhood but decided not to ask as there were ,after all, his two psychotic scythe-wielding pets on either side of him.

"" Crawford replied.

The man in the doorway nodded in agreement. "Well my friend, your German can't be that bad or else I doubt your head would still be on your shoulders." He nodded to the golems for emphasis, they didn't move a millimetre.

"I still don't see how this is necessary." Crawford frowned, clearly riled.

The man shrugged, "We have to make sure people are who they say they are when they come to us."

"Have you not considered cutting a slot in the door to look through instead?" Crawford shrugged in response.

The blonde man ignored this and returned inside while prompting his 'friend' to follow suit. Once the door closed it seemed as if the storm had never existed, the colossal stone fireplace made certain that the whole interior was lit in a warm tangerine glow which weaved warmth slowly but surely back into Crawford's body. The walls of the room were covered with plaques fitted with the heads of bears, wolfs, even foxes. Crawford silently noted any predatory animal unfortunate enough to be out and about at the same time as his hosts seemed less lucky in dealing with their scythes as he had. They crossed into the centre of the room to stand at opposite sides at a large, circular mahogany table with the Teutonic assassin's symbol engraved in the centre. The both stool silent automatically sizing one another up, a natural habit considering their line of work.

"Have you brought what I requested?" The blonde man began; his friendly smile had disappeared as quickly as it had arisen at the door.

In response Crawford reached inside his robes and pulled out a soft black leather bag, reached inside it and pulled out a diamond. It was bigger than a man's fist and the orange light bounced off of it and reflected a rainbow cascade of reds, greens and blues on the walls and the old table. It was beautiful, like it had been a star that was plucked from its heavenly domain to live among mere mortals and it had brought the infinitely mesmerising cascade of starlight down with it. He replaced the star back in the bag.

It took the blond a few seconds to realise that his treasure was gone. He shook his head frantically, "Whe…" he began, still slightly dazed, he coughed into his closed hand, "Where did you get that?"

"Around thirty years ago in East Africa. I saved the chief of a local tribe's daughter from slave catchers, the ship was under Templar control so I was dispatched there to…how do I say this…slow down business? Anyway once my task on freeing the slaves, killing the crew and burning the ship from the inside out was done I returned the chief's kin to him, he was so grateful he presented me with what he called 'the sun's tear', his most precious possession. I tried to refuse but he insisted so I complied, I've kept it hidden all these years and I assure you, its value is not purely sentimental," He placed the bag in the middle of the table, "Now, where is it?"

The blonde man nodded and pulled out a bundle wrapped up in a red fabric and placed it beside the diamond in the bag. Crawford's eyes widened when he saw the bundle, it was like there was a vibrant, pulsating force asking him…no…willing him to take it. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, no, he couldn't allow himself to be taken like this.

"Gets inside your head does it not?" The blonde German smiled joylessly.

"How long would I have?" Crawford urged.

"Well," The blonde German's tongue probed the inside of his left cheek, clearly thinking his answer over, "Our main user of the artefact had worked with it for around two years and he managed to get a full week out of it, for a new owner…two minutes…if you're lucky." Another empty smile escaped the side of his mouth.

"That's it!" Crawford's jaw nearly hit the bearskin rug.

"Afraid so," another smile, dangerously close to smugness, "Oh and if you're thinking of keeping this as secret as your diamond that is quite impossible, you see if you tried to use the artefact it's power would burn you from the inside out, we originally tried it out with one of our veterans…it wasn't pretty…long story short it would require someone half you're age, perhaps that apprentice whom you valued so much…"

Crawford had already flicked out his hidden blades before the blonde man had time to finish, the man had, in response to this had his hand on a long staff (akin to the ones that the golems had) which was holstered to his back, daring Crawford to make a move.

Crawford shook his head and retracted his blades, "Thank you Hans," he picked the red parcel up while leaving the diamond to its new owner, "I'll be off now, we must do this again." He returned the smug smile.

Hans, still wearing his mask of decency, bowed, "Auf Wiedersehen Crawford."

Crawford left immediately not speaking a single word until the door closed behind him and he was back in the rain which, honestly, he preferred compared to being in the same room as Hans.

"Dickhead." He muttered, not caring about the motionless golems less than a few metres away from him.

He knocked on the window of the carriage and the driver got out almost instantaneously.

"Gehen wir." He demanded flatly. The driver nodded and in next to no time they were off again. Crawford then held on to the bottom of the seat, just in case his wild theory about falling out of the window was true, and he did not want to be on the wrong end of a scythe blade tonight.

* * *

The black and brown blurs continued to mock Carter's vision as he was pretty much thrown into a small room and bundled into a chair with his handcuffed hands behind his back, his head rocked from side to side as he gradually reached a reasonable state of awareness. He heard, in place of the ringing in his ears, the sound of at least two men arguing behind him. After several obscenities were yelled he heard the noise being drowned out by the door slamming and all he heard then were footsteps coming up from behind him.

The man who had evidently won the dispute sat opposite Carter, in his hand he had a bottle of what looked like fine malt whiskey and two small glasses. He sat down and intertwined his fingers; he stared hard at Carter for a few moments before speaking.

"Carter Hastings, born 1854 in Whitechapel's west clinic, educated at waterloo community college and graduated with honours in parliamentary studies in 76' and worked as an advisor to Prime Minister Disraeli during the last two years of his reign as PM before retiring early due to illness. This is the file we have on you in the station."

Carter restrained himself from smiling, this must have been Richard's doing to convince people that Carter was in fact his father, the fact that his last name on the file was akin to Richard's was proof of that.

"That file is a fake," The man nearly guffawed at Carter's non-attempt to hide his surprise, "I will admit that the file is a forgery of the highest possible standard, your little friend Richard certainly knows his stuff but come on, did you seriously think that there was even a slight chance that we wouldn't know who you really were?"

Carter understood; this man, whoever he may be, was undoubtedly a Templar. He had seen many of his wretched kind and he had the same stuck-up condescending air about him.

The Templar placed the glass in front of Carter and one in front of himself; he then poured the whiskey into both glasses and leant back. Carter stared at him blankly.

"Oh come now Carter, please spare me the pretence I'm not getting any younger here." He sighed impatiently.

Carter smiled widely and there was a metal clattering sound as the handcuffs which had formerly restrained him fell to the floor. He then imitated his captor's intertwined finger posture.

"How long did it take you?" The Templar asked genuinely curious.

"They're French," Carter shrugged, "So about half a minute? It would have taken less time but I had just recently been on the wrong end of a wooden baton, courtesy of your little pawns."

The Templar chuckled slightly, "Well I suppose I had better introduce myself, I am Superintendent Thomas Arnold and as you may have already sussed out, I am one of the council of ten," He picked up his glass but he saw that Carter simply stared at his, he then took a drink of his own and stuck his tongue out, placed his hands around his own throat and made a choking sound, he then smiled widely, "Carter my friend, if I had wanted to kill you the I assure you that I would have done it by now."

Carter took a sip, "That brings me to my question of your motives, why do you want me to escape?"

"Whatever do you mean?" Thomas inquired innocently.

Carter's smile disappeared, "Oh please, you're a Templar and a police officer…"

"Superintendent" Thomas interrupted.

"Whatever, the point still stands that you cannot be stupid enough to tie a prisoner's hands behind their back," he held his hands up for emphasis, "especially an assassin as you would not be able to see what their hands are doing."

Thomas reached down to the floor and picked up Carter's walking stick and examined it closely, "Okay I will admit, I have my own reasons for bringing you here but do not act as if you are surprised at this turn of events."

"Excuse me?" It was Carter's turn to act innocent now.

"You are an intelligent man there is no doubt about that, the minute you saw my spies opposite the tower you knew you would be captured and I'm guessing your disguise was so that the arresting officer would underestimate you and be vulnerable to your attack, correct?"

Carter said nothing but Thomas continued, "My question however, is that you saw this coming yet you didn't use this." He twisted the silver head of the stick and a clicking sound was made, he pulled it out, the head detached and out slid with it a light grey blade of high-tensile steel. Again nothing from Carter, his expression unchanged.

Then Thomas understood and he nodded his head in recognition. "Richard. You knew that if you pulled a blade out you would certainly have evaded capture but it could just have easily have become Richard's death warrant so you let yourself be captured instead. You are…a very unusual assassin." Thomas narrowed his eyes as if he was trying to see something about him that was not obvious…he was certain that there was something about him that was strange, even if he didn't know exactly what it was.

"What do you want with me?" Carter demanded a little too loudly. The mention of his former apprentice had reminded him that he had an important job to do and he couldn't spend much more time here.

"What do I want? Now that is a good question. I would say I want…an alliance?"

The shock and utter madness of that statement caused Carter to laugh out loud, he thought he was going to die from the laughter but he couldn't help it. When he saw the serious expression on Thomas's face however he ceased.

"You're serious? Are you sure that whiskey hasn't been tampered with because I think you just suggested an alliance?"

"I did."

"Oh."

"I know how mad it sounds but I would not ask you for this unless I was desperate. I'm the head of this division, all the officers look to me for answers but this serial killer, this Jack the Ripper…I have no answers and my Brothers in the order do nothing to help me they're more concerned in foreign interests than a killer in a backward area." He shook his head disgustedly.

"How do I know this is not some kind of Templar trap?" Carter inquired.

Thomas leant forward intently, "You know full well it isn't, I can see the disbelief in your eyes even as you utter that theory, you think it is an assassin don't you?" He raised one of his eyebrows, expecting an answer.

"If that were the case, and if you believed that it was so," He copied Thomas's gesture once again, "Then what makes you think you can trust me any better?"

"Because I'm not stupid, we've been keeping an eye on you, mercury hunter, ever since your little escapade five years ago we've never let you out of our site so I am confident that you have nothing to do with the workings of the Ripper, even if he is in fact one of your brothers in arms."

Carter considered this. He had long ago suspected that the Templars had been spying on him, it was probably the work of Mina, the girl who brought him goods from her 'farm' who also took quite an annoyingly lot of interest in his life. He didn't really mind though she was company all the same, hopefully the infamy of the mercury hunter was enough to keep any Templar hit-men at a reasonable distance, although the danger was there all the same. He had been living in a house of cards during his absence and it wouldn't take a lot for it to crash down. He had for so many nights waited for the taste of cold steel on his throat or when he went for a walk for a bullet to split his skull in two. He thought he had been lucky, that the Templars had given up on him simply because he was allowed the grace of keeping his wretched life. He realised now that that was folly.

"What, if I agree to it, would this alliance entail?" He asked flatly.

"It would be just between us," He began, "If you wish you can tell your little Richard but no one else, this must be kept secret or both of our heads will roll, literally in my case." His expression was grave, Carter knew little of Templar inner workings but what he did know was that their disciplinary measures made the assassin's methods look like a slap on the wrist.

"It will pretty much be me and you working together, temporarily of course, to catch this monster. You will tell all that you and your little team of assassin's and freemasons find out and in return, I leave my entire police division at your disposal." He spread his hands out for emphasis.

Carter placed his jaw in the palm of his hand, his eyes focused on a small black stain on the table, deep in thought. This was insane; it was like hundreds of years of being each other's nemesis had been completely disregarded as an alliance, although an essentially miniscule one, between the two secret societies seemed to be on the horizon. This was a dangerous game. If it worked then the Ripper may be caught but if it was discovered then the consequences would be unimaginable.

"Do we have an accord?" Thomas said while holding out his hand.

Carter was just about to offer his right hand but Thomas then stopped him, "The hand without the hidden blade in the sleeve if you please." He requested while showing the fake pleasant smile again.

Carter returned the expression, "Of course…but if you don't mind could you please point your revolver away from my tentacles?"

Thomas shrugged, took his hand from under the table and placed the silver coloured revolver on the table.

"I'm not even going to ask how you knew." They shook hands, genuinely grinning at each other.

"Oh," Thomas drained half of his drink, "one of my subordinates will be meeting you in around two days…maybe three actually…he's a hard man to find."

"How will I know him?" Carter inquired.

"Well he's not exactly a character you wouldn't notice but I think his most outstanding feature will be that he will try to kill you?"

"Ah well that clears it up." Carter answered sarcastically.

"Well I think you had better get going," He handed Carter his walking stick back, "and don't kill anyone on your way out but do create a stir, it has to look like an escape after all." He placed the glass down.

Carter smiled widely, "In that case." He stood up sharply, snatched Thomas's glass off the table and threw it against the closed door. It shattered in a spray of broken glass and rust coloured whiskey. He sprinted for the door and as the guard from outside opened to investigate he grabbed the top of the door frame and he pulled up with his arms, brought his knee up and smack the guard under the jaw. His head snapped back and he fell without a sound.

Carter looked back at a slightly wide-eyed Thomas, "He'll live." He then sprinted down the corridor.

"I hadn't finished that drink." Thomas mumbled to himself. He then took Carter's glass, still full, and inspected it slightly. He then shrugged his shoulders and drained it in one go.

Carter stopped sprinting halfway down the corridor and frisked himself. Thomas seemed to have made precautions as not only was his walking stick not taken into evidence upon his arrest but the arresting officers must also have been ordered not to frisk and take his other weaponry. A good thing too; because the evidence room would have had a field day with the kind of objects which he carried around with him. He only needed one for this particular instance though. He reached into a hidden compartment of his robes and pulled out his apache pistol. He had bought it in Belgium several years ago and it basically consisted of a miniature single shot firearm with a small penknife that folded off from the bottom of the nose and the handle was made in the style of a knuckleduster. He slipped his fingers into the holes, loaded the bullet and flipped out the penknife. He normally would use the hidden blade but there was too much of a chance that it would kill someone and (for once) that was not his aim.

He flattened himself against the wall and checked around the corner. Two police officers stood talking to one another, he couldn't see anyone else around but there were undoubtedly more police around. He had to act now before more came along.

He came out from around the corner and started to walk quickly towards his opponents. One of them recognised him and cried out, baton raised. He swung it in a lightning quick arc which would have knocked his teeth out if it had connected but Carter ducked swiftly and stuck the apache pistol's blade into the side of the guard's patella; he then pulled the trigger on the gun. The guard howled in agony as the wall was splattered in a spray of his blood and muscle tissue.

The second guard wasted precious seconds in shocked admiration as his colleague collapsed which allowed Carter to close the distance between them. The guard tried a clumsy overhead strike with his baton which Carter easily knocked aside with his walking stick which caused the officer take a longer step than he planned; he then gripped the stick with both hands and swung it upward with his entire strength right between the guard's legs. He looked like his eyes were about to pop out of his head and his face had turned the colour a bruised tomato he then slid down onto the floor with a slight whimpering sound.

A loud bell sounded seconds after the second guard fell, "Shit." Carter cursed, inaudible in the deafening din. Thomas must have finally reported his escape, his head start was over.

He looked around disorientated before looking around the next corner, he ducked back immediately as he saw there were at least half a dozen guards around the corner; guards with guns. And they were heading right towards him.

Carter backed away and barged back-first into the first door he came to and locked it from the inside. He flattened his back against the door, with his eyes closed and breathing heavily, and listened to the pounding steps of his pursuers outside. When he heard nothing more he opened his eyes again.

He appeared to be in the mortuary. Left and right soulless bodies that had been poked, prodded then finally 'bagged and tagged' to be sent to whatever fate that these hollow shells of human life had before them would they be burned to a crisp or left to rot in the ground? Carter personally couldn't care less he was only concentrated on a strange sight in the centre of the room. A cadaver on a steel table that had not yet been placed in a bag; in fact it was still fully clothed.

Carter approached the body on the table. He did not know why it was as if an external force was willing him towards it and he had no choice but to comply. He found himself standing over the body. It was a man in a black suit with the white shirt slightly undone. His raven black hair had fallen back revealing quite a large forehead. Despite this he looked as if he was quite handsome in life, yet in death his skin had become near transparent and had sagged down to his cheekbones in wrinkles so he looked many years older than he in fact was.

That however was not what Carter was concentrated on. Oh no what he was looking at was the obvious cause of death. There was an ugly red and black hole in the centre of his throat which, judging by the external bursting fashion of the flesh around it, it was inflicted from behind. There was something else about the wound though, something horrifying to him something that willed him with dread, made him sick to his stomach and he knew the reason. It was because his worst fears had been realised and yet there was simply no denying the truth of it.

_**The wound had been inflicted by an assassin's hidden blade.**_

* * *

Translations: Schnitters Wache- The Reaper's Guardhouse

Warte hier, bis ich zurück bekommen Sie- Wait here until I get back ok?

Nichts ist wahr… alles ist erlaubt.- Nothing is true…everything is permitted.

Ah Crawford mein alter Freund, wie bist du gewesen?- Ah Crawford my old friend, how have you been?

Wenn es Ihnen nichts ausmacht könnten wir zu Englisch wechseln? Mein Deutsch ist ein wenig rostig.- If you do not mind could we switch to English. My German is a little rusty.

Gehen wir-lets go


End file.
